


Reach Out and Touch Someone

by lorenerd13



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Caught in the Act, Humor that turns serious, Kink Meme, Masturbation, Multi, Prompt Fill, Warcraft Kink Meme, attempted Khadgar/Jaina, rule of the universe: Khadgar cannot catch a break, we like to call this flavor of smut 'warcrack', well that got awkward
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 19:10:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7281133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorenerd13/pseuds/lorenerd13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Warcraft kink meme prompt:</p>
<p>"Khadgar's stream of consciousness while jerking off in his tower in Zangarra."</p>
<p>Originally a one-shot and then it kind of lurched off on its own with me still tied to the saddle kicking and screaming. Additional chapters forthcoming once I wrestle them through proper edits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Full prompt text from http://warcraftkink.livejournal.com/588.html?thread=242252#t242252: "Khadgar's stream of consciousness while jerking off in his tower in Zangarra.
> 
> "A serious fill would be more than welcome too, but as a character I think Khadgar lends himself beautifully to humor. So bonus points if Cordana interrupts because she just won't leave him alone for five seconds in case he starts using the weapons of the enemy again, or Jaina pops in to say threatening things about Khadgar being too friendly with the Horde, or if he gets distracted by intrusive thoughts of Gul'dan and has to refocus. Make me lol!"
> 
> Author's commentary: The title should very obviously be sourced to that AT&T slogan in the 80s. If any readers want to continue this silliness, please feel free and make sure to link me so I can be amused.

It must be something in the Draenor air but Khadgar has yet to find relief when he tries to take care of stress relieving business. And Cordana, Light bless her, worries for him to the point of interrupting him before he can finish half his serious thoughts, let alone get rid of this frustrated ache at the base of his dick. He's given weighty consideration to turning her into a frog for half an hour or so just to get some privacy. So wrong, and yet it would let him at last solve this distracting conundrum.

Today he's cautioned her that he will be performing a scrying with dire consequences should she burst in and interrupt him before it's over. To throw her a bone, he's promised that he's behaving himself and, if she should knock, he will do his utmost to put a halt to this incredibly complex working to prove it. It's not like he's going anywhere that she can hunt him down and lambast him for endangering himself.

Worst case, if she does burst in on him, he can try to throw up an illusion of himself at the bookshelves while he makes himself presentable.

It adds to the allure of the situation, a slight uptick in his respiration rate as if he were once again a randy youngster exploring the seemingly limitless hallways of Karazhan for a similar purpose. He'd tried his best to hide such activities from his teacher, in all probability in vain. But the added spice of the possibility of discovery makes it just that much more...fun.

For all the circumspect research he's done on various races' imaginings, he's found that his methods are unique, to put it kindly. Whereas most interview subjects in the literature picture a preferred partner—or partners—indulging in varying levels of debauchery, Khadgar takes everyone else out of the equation. In his head, it's just him and the feather-light touches of the arcane he dances with at every opportunity. It brushes across his skin, tingling, electric; fills all his depths. The turning of the stars themselves lives in him, becomes comprehensible for one dazzling moment as he sweeps his hand up and down along the shaft—

Yesss. That's what he's been wanting for weeks on end. He can feel it building.

And then everything tilts sideways. The comfortingly familiar flows twist back in on themselves and another power asserts itself, doubly familiar. He cannot mistake the singed miasma that precedes the presence of fel magic, and, after weeks of having hunted this particular practitioner while studying everything to do with him, he too is unmistakable. Gul'dan.

He tries to shield his own presence so the wily orc can't turn the situation to his advantage but it's too late. That leer has long since seared itself into his memory, strongly enough that he could be imagining it. But no, he's had enough training that he can easily banish the idle products of a bored imagination. This is no phantom of his lust: it is the essence of the necromancer and it sees him.

A twisted intelligence glitters in his eyes as he observes Khadgar, his gaze never straying from the swiping motions that he continues to make because damned if he's going to acknowledge the eyes on him. Was this how his master had fallen, after dalliances with powers he never should have tempted? Then Gul'dan's lips split into a grin that deepens his leer. If the orc weren't someone he found profoundly creepy in the first place, this would cinch his place. He can feel his cheeks heating up and not from the exertion.

If he doesn't finish soon, he's going to lose his erection and then Cordana will come knocking and he won't get another chance for weeks upon weeks. The thought of having to clean up after nocturnal emissions and the jumbled images in his dreams steadies his resolve. He pushes back into the flows until they envelop him like the icemelt in a newly freed river in spring; he still shudders but not from the cold so much as a frisson of pleasure-familiarity-power all at once. He closes his eyes to more fully continue his dance.

A drop of pre-cum beads at the tip. A good sign; he's almost to his climax.

So gently he's not sure if he's hallucinating it, he feels a touch on the tip of his dick. He opens his eyes again.

Gul'dan's wizened finger has already pulled away with the drop of glistening pre-cum just visible under his fingernail before he twists his wrist back toward his face. His eyes go thoughtful as he stretches out his tongue to taste the product of Khadgar's pent-up lust.

It's too much. He goes over the moons.

Khadgar can't tell if his brain supplied the amused chuckle or if it truly came from the figure watching him go slack-jawed with pleasure while he finally, finally gets his relief. His furtive, hurried activity meant that he didn't think his setup all the way through and now he has a prominent sticky mess on his robes.

Worse, the door he very specifically latched so Cordana would need special tools to open if she chose to ignore his warnings? She's got it figured already, damn it all, because it swings open with a gust of humid air and brightens the dim room. "Archmage? I thought I sensed something amiss..." Cordana calls.

He squeezes his eyes shut as embarrassment takes away some of the afterglow. Now would be a good time for that image of himself while he cleans up. He flings up a hand to summon the spell, somewhat relieved that he thought to conceal himself from the expected intrusion at least. With a heave, he sits upright. Does he have any relatively clean cloths to dab on himself? She'll start asking questions momentarily and he hasn't specifically made a study of how night elves feel about the subject of masturbation, nor does he want to broach the subject at this juncture—

A whisper of air in the corner interrupts his near panicked thought process. Khadgar squints at it until it resolves once again into the hunched form of his adversary, fading from sight even now.

And a final purr that rocks him to his core: "Exquisite."


	2. Irresistible as Fel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Try as he might, Khadgar can’t get that “magic” moment out of his head, so he resorts to questionable attempts to distract himself. Today is not his day and tomorrow's not looking good either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got bitten by the “it’s just a one-shot! …wait, no, there’s more to this” bug as well so now I guess things are gonna escalate. So I totally blame all the wonderful prompters and authors on the kink meme for the terrible, terrible ideas they give me. Also these are some seriously unhealthy coping behaviors on display and I would take it amiss if anyone were to attempt to emulate them. And, confession time, I seriously don’t remember much of the Alliance storyline in WoD from the beta so please excuse any and all inaccuracies on that point (yes this statement is necessary; have you looked at my pseud?).
> 
> Beware if you feel secondhand embarrassment.
> 
> [*coughfortheHordecough*]

 

> _Is this not your natural state? It’s the unspoken truth of humanity, that you crave subjugation. The bright lure of freedom diminishes your life’s joy in a mad scramble for power, for identity. You were made to be ruled. In the end, you will always kneel._  
>  —Loki, “The Avengers”

“Archmage? Khadgar! Are you listening to me?”

  
“Oh...Cordana. Sorry, I was meditating on our...predicament,” Khadgar says. The world slowly swims back into focus: his tower in sweltering Zangarra; the apparently oblivious warden who does her level best to protect him from himself. The highly decorated commander of the Horde forces stationed across the continent who nevertheless remains humble almost to a fault giving him a look that eloquently questions whether Khadgar has taken leave of his senses.

  
Unless he’s unfairly projecting onto her.

  
After such a minor falsehood in a trail leading from that first terribly embarrassing one, it wouldn’t do to admit that he’s been doing nothing on the subject of trying to design a dazzling plan of victory. No, he’s still very much stuck on whether he’d been hit with a mind control spell; a very pertinent question that he’s had to ask himself over the past weeks in which he’s avoided any and all contact with the outside world. At first Cordana accepted his excuses that he was merely tired, that he needed to meditate, that he had lost his train of thought to a minor distraction but really, no need for concern, he was fine. Just tired.

  
Just confused and frightened by who and what he had accidentally courted. As a prepubescent child he had of course learned about puberty and the normal course of things; while he’d hidden nocturnal emissions from the Kirin Tor and later Medivh before finding places to gain release, the lean years in Outland had precluded much personal time. Well, that and the combination of interstellar entities that could read his mind and fending off constant attacks from felsworn and Illidari and everything else on that benighted hunk of rock that stood as testament to the poor choices of the past. Still. He hasn’t dared to take time for himself again due to the nebulous fears that he has inadvertently taken on a subtle corrupting influence. Stealing his waking hours; the frustrated dreams of apparitions that awake him in repeated panicked sweats. If his control over even his unconscious slips... Definitely not the type of issue he could comfortably discuss with Cordana’s suspicious gazes forever tracking him.  
“Are you feeling well, archmage?” Cordana asks very pointedly. The way her uniform covers her eyes and nose, she can’t exactly give hints with a significant look.

  
But he has a guest and he must pull himself together. Have two weeks already elapsed since her last scheduled visit? Khadgar makes a mental note regarding losing track of time on the ephemeral list of worrisome developments since the incident. Its length rather staggers him.

  
Focus. Breathe.

  
He holds to an outward façade of control while chatting amiably with the commander about how her official duties progress and whether she’s seen the least hint of Gul’dan’s intentions or minions or location. Had Medivh experienced this guilt when acting on the Legion’s interests? Possibly only necromancy could answer that question since his spellbook contained the wisdom of ages and no spell-locked diary section. No magical skull full of the enemy’s reasoning and knowledge for consumption.

  
When the next guest turns up, unexpected but not precisely unwelcome, he wouldn’t put it past Cordana to have arranged an intervention for him. The last time he saw a reflective surface, his jowls with graying fuzz and the utter hopelessness in his eyes took him aback. Men as powerful as he don’t keep many friends, not in the political currents that pull the unwary under without warning, not in a universe in which an orc can—

  
He shies from the thought.

  
He’s visibly late in greeting his fellow archmage which certainly does nothing to improve her mood. Jaina then glares at the Horde commander through every moment of the interaction anyway, though the object of her disgust has enough class to refuse to acknowledge any of it. Although Khadgar, too, finds it difficult to guess what an impassive-faced tauren death knight is feeling at any given moment, if anything.They have fought long and hard to keep the very term “death knight” from this Gul’dan’s hearing; their plans are brittle enough that if he should learn too much more about the following thirty-odd years of history, he might divine solutions that those who had lived through it never could, and that would spell their destruction before they can end his ambitions. Even Jaina, reluctant to cooperate with anything relating to the Horde despite Khadgar’s assurances that this doesn’t make her a traitor to her own policies, had agreed that this was one secret deserving of protection.

  
Their meeting takes twice as long as usual, what with Khadgar’s inability to concentrate on the matter at hand. The Horde commander refrains from saying much, just as suspicious as Jaina over revealing too much of her troop movements and it getting back to Varian, the Alliance commanders, or Admiral Taylor. In Khadgar’s opinion she’s fairly laconic to start with, anyway. He resorts to grunts of approval or disapproval in spite of Cordana’s periodic suspicious head-tilts when he doesn’t have insightful commentary to add.

  
He’s been gazing dreamily in Jaina’s general direction for several minutes when the meeting breaks up and his visitors get ready to go their separate ways. The commander seems to have forgotten how social interaction works—or had it beaten out of her; what he wouldn’t give for an afternoon to poke at the spells that resurrected her, although she would never stand for it. Not for all of the gold in all of the goblin treasuries back home. And Draenor in its heyday is glorious enough to take his breath away after spending all those years alternately fleeing and soaking up new applications of the arcane no mere mortal had dreamed up in its analogue from his native timeline; he has enough distractions in this version of events.

  
Overall, if he had to put a name to it, he’d say his state of mind is reminiscent of giddy drunkenness. Never mind that alcohol and the required focus for nearly any mage’s spelling never mix without at least the very real possibility of property destruction, if not worse. What he wouldn’t give for a concoction to refocus his attention.

  
...refocus. Of course.

  
He hears himself speaking before he can stop the words. “Lady Jaina, would you please stay a few minutes for a...private discussion?”

  
Cordana does that exceedingly obvious head-tilt of curiosity but chooses not to opine. The commander’s ears perk up a bit also but she continues on her way towards the relay portal that will send her across the canyon to where her mount waits to take her back to whichever base she’s currently working out of. Khadgar is in luck, since Jaina might stand there giving him an inscrutable look and carefully weighing whatever meanings she might see in his words for a time but she ultimately agrees to it.

  
“It.” No matter what terms he couches it in, this will present difficulties. Problems. Had she not admitted early on in their hush-hush partnership that she and the aspect of the blue dragonflight were not doing anything physical and their relationship stemmed from mutual admiration of each other’s minds and abilities, he wouldn’t dare to take this desperate step. Furthermore, Jaina had explained that not only would physical relations with Kalecgos prove biologically and mechanically impossible, the aspect had no interest in such with anyone—dragon or human or otherwise—and therefore he and Jaina had an agreement that if she so chose, she could do as she pleased with a partner of her choosing. Now he just needs to convince her to help him without revealing the ultimate source of his problem.

  
He leads her further into his tower, past a shimmering ward that marks off his sleeping area from where he conducts his research and holds certain one-on-one meetings. It’s a cozy space with plump furniture that invites any infrequent guests to sit at their ease, as the first step in easing someone’s suspicions is quite often to offer them comfortable surroundings. Jaina sits on the edge of a chair as if ready to alight at a moment’s notice and flit back to wherever she’s secreted herself away. She must spend so much time spying while under her infamous invisibility spell that she takes almost no time for meals or sleep. His plan might just allow her a chance to blow off steam as well. Never take an action with just one endgame in mind, Medivh had taught him; the lesson stuck well.

  
“All right, Khadgar: what do you want?” Jaina asks primly.

  
He doesn’t want to lie to her; she’s a valuable ally and very close to a friend. Exploiting her would bring unthinkable repercussions, so he must move delicately. But how to explain...?

  
Khadgar rubs at his chin. The whiskers are getting overlong; another task for his to-do list that he’ll likely forget in moments. He doesn’t sit but he moves away from the doorway to allow her an egress. “I’m having something of an issue,” he begins.

  
Jaina’s lips twist into a formation akin to amusement. Very little escapes her discernment; one of the first reasons he had begun to like her.

  
“I can’t concentrate on the necessities of my research right now. You had confided in me the details of your love life as it stands, so I had thought that perhaps you and I could engage in some mutual...stress relief.” There. It’s out there.

  
She ducks her head to peer at him with her brows drawn low. “You’re...propositioning me?”

  
He spreads his hands somewhat helplessly. “In the name of allowing us both to retain a degree of control that I know I at least am lacking due to the demands of the current campaign. I wouldn’t presume to speak for your own energy levels and interest, but I should think that given our years of training we could satisfy a primal need while retaining our professionalism.”

  
Jaina’s face contorts through a series of emotions almost too fast to discern: confusion, affront, reluctance, maybe a hint of interest. “You’re propositioning me,” she repeats, now disbelieving.

  
“...ye-es?”

  
“As friends only.”

  
“Essentially,” Khadgar says with a dip of his head.

  
Finally she raises an eyebrow. She has to have received invitations for debauched nights in the years since her apprenticeship. When the Dark Portal reopened, of course one of the first updates to fly straight through to Shattrath? All manner of gossip regarding various persons of interest who had come of age during the years of separation, on top of details concerning trysts and unmaskings and the like for the power players of the previous generation. Jaina easily equals him in raw power even if her abilities were honed in vastly different ways than under the tutelage of the naaru; he heard of her almost from the start, particularly in conjunction with whispers about the personal life of Kael’thas Sunstrider before matters conspired to bring about his downfall. Oh, perhaps that’s the cause of her disbelief: understandable thoughts that Khadgar’s intentions bear more than passing resemblance to the unwelcome attention of the former high elven prince.

  
She takes a breath and he can see the impending rejection in her eyes. There must be some way to convince her. “Thank you,” Jaina begins, completely cordial, “but there’s simply too much to be done in Draenor for me to see the value in a few hours spent on a distraction.”

  
“Too many memories?” Khadgar says, but it’s not unkindly.

  
Jaina flinches.

  
Is it possible she hasn’t had adult relations since her youthful betrothal? And now that she feels driven to be the instrument of justice against those who wronged her, nothing will stand in her way? What a lonely existence. Aren’t they just a matched pair in that sense, though.

  
No matter how he wracks his brain, he doesn’t see a way to overcome her using persuasion. “Please,” Khadgar says at last. “As a favor to me; I would owe you a favor in return. If I cannot shake what is bedeviling me, I won’t be able to fulfill my obligations to assist Azeroth in this hour of need. We need never speak of it or think of it again afterward.”

  
She pauses, breaking his gaze, and combs her fingers through her hair. She’s incontrovertibly gorgeous with her hair having gone nearly completely white and her eyes glowing faintly as a result of handling almost unimaginable amounts of the arcane in a single session. For all that she is a good decade younger than he, magical aging effects aside, he respects her mind and capabilities. Both of which render her all the more lovely in his eyes. Far too many men have discounted either her mind or her body when expressing their appreciation of her, he’s certain.

  
“This has to be the strangest method of asking someone to sleep with you ever,” she says.

  
And were it not for the images plaguing him, he would never consider it. “I cannot reproduce the conventions of courtly speech,” Khadgar says. “I am merely a clumsy man blessed with similar magical proficiencies as your ladyship.”

  
Jaina rolls her eyes. Self-deprecation is an art, after all.

  
Now. This is where he has to let the notion take flight or crash. A single nudge could ruin his chances.

  
He schools his expression to let her come to a decision without feeling guilted into it.

  
“You know what? Fine. A favor for a favor,” Jaina says wickedly.

  
He’d thought himself prepared for any answer but that one still surprises him. He spends a few precious seconds with her words replaying in his mind before he can even begin to believe it. And now he has no idea how to proceed, since his youth was spent flirting with the dangers of alluring flows rather than his fellow humans—or members of other races, for that matter. To think that Khadgar would find himself in this position at his age.

  
He summons a rakish grin from somewhere to hide his nervousness.

  
As if she can sense his every emotion, Jaina gives him a knowing smile in return and stands up. Showing some very good sense, she has forgone the hooded and split-tailed cape she normally wears since Zangarra closely resembles the steaming jungles of Stranglethorn Vale in many ways, most of them temperature related. Even so, he can see a slight sheen of perspiration by her temple and by the curve of her throat. He’ll want to offer her access to cool water for washing after this experiment’s conclusion.

  
Then she takes hold of the bottom edge of her top and pulls it over her head without any ceremony. Khadgar has less familiarity with breasts than other enticing subjects but the Light damn him if he doesn’t want to outright fondle them. He discovers his mouth has fallen open in amazement. His reaction seems to embolden her; she tosses the top into a careless heap on the chair she’s just vacated before turning her gaze and those slim fingers to her wide-legged pants. By some sleight of hand that he couldn’t replicate much less describe, she unhooks whatever invisible clasp or magic held them in place so that they puddle around her ankle-high boots.

  
“I’m fairly sure you’re supposed to get undressed for this as well,” she tells him. How droll.

  
Not since his face matched his chronological age has he considered that someone out there might find him desirable. It’s not a word one would normally think to apply to an archmage privy to the secrets of beings beyond mortal fathoming. His parts are in no way broken, not with the reaction this visual stimulus is bringing up. Jaina has turned an approving eye on the tented shape visible behind his pants and over-layers. When in Draenor...

  
Perhaps just this once he can act with haste without it blowing up in his face later. A moment’s silent incantation sends his clothing flying in an arcane whirlwind, each piece folding itself neatly in a set of stacks on a bare shelf. There they stand, two naked humans glistening with sweat in the early afternoon humidity, embarrassed and awkward but not so much that it keeps them from showing signs of arousal. Khadgar very specifically refrains from looking down at his erection in either shame or vanity.

  
He clears his throat after finding his mouth has gone dry. “Where would you like me to start?” he asks.

  
It’s not the kind of question that should bring a perplexed look to Jaina’s face but it does. Every bit of data she accidentally reveals leads him to some rather depressing conclusions. Could be worse; he could have attempted to seduce Cordana.

  
When the silence stretches to add its harmony to the discomfort already in the air, Khadgar abandons letting Jaina answer. _Just friends_ precludes so intimate a gesture as a kiss on the lips, but perhaps other places...

  
He approaches but not so smoothly as a more self-assured suitor might; he is no jungle cat to stalk and pounce and draw cries of passion from his partner. Raising a hesitant hand, he very gently cups her breast all the while searching her face for a hint of rejection. She lifts her arms slightly so he has unfettered access and, if anything, she seems amused, so he dips his head and kisses around the areola. Once he’s ascertained that that hasn’t elicited a negative reaction either, he rests his other hand on the side of her torso to help steady his balance and goes to begin the kissing procedure on the other side.

  
But Jaina gently removes both his hands and he’s about to give in to disappointment that she won’t even let him try this much when she clasps his wrists and tugs him toward his bed. He follows along genially enough but still unsure of himself at every stage. She pulls the admittedly somewhat ratty but serviceable covers over the end to expose the cool sheets. Khadgar allows himself to relax a minute amount. Provided she doesn’t comment on how on edge he appears....

  
Khadgar tries to consciously relax his muscles, turning it into a languorous stretch. It doesn’t feel like he’s any less visibly uncomfortable and he certainly hasn’t the first clue how to attempt so-called bedroom eyes, but that’s not the point of the exercise.

  
As Jaina lies back she gives him a nervous smile. With so much in common, why can’t Khadgar push himself out of his self-conscious rut and into the moment? He takes the initiative to put his knee on the bed, watching her all the while. A lot of the stress that she holds in check is usually visible at the corners of her eyes but right now she seems open and trusting. Khadgar brings himself fully onto the bed, hovering over her. Without any guidance, he can only guess what she might find agreeable based on the half-forgotten steamy novels squirreled away from prying adult eyes in his youth.  
One more try. “All right, anything I should avoid?” he asks with faked good humor.

  
She shakes her head.

  
Women tend to like licking and gentle love bites in erogenous zones, don’t they? He hunkers down to the level of her breasts and begins kissing above the pleasant tissue in a line, up and up above her collarbone and the hollow just above it. His peripheral vision treats him to a flash of her smiling girlishly.

  
_Stubble_. The images from a confusing novel he’d muddled through spring back into faded life; a strapping hero with a permanent collection of stubble that could hardly deserve the name beard using that same mass of hair against the heroine’s neck to fantastic effect. A blessing in disguise that he hasn’t felt the urge to shave, then. He aligns his chin with the spot just behind her earlobe and scrapes it lightly down.

  
He hears a gratifying intake of breath.

  
Then a chuckle that sounds far too realistic to be in his head. “Like master, like apprentice,” he hears Gul’dan murmur.

  
Jaina stiffens, shaking the bed. Did she hear it, too? “No, stop!” she says. It’s too loud, too forceful for the enclosed space.

  
Khadgar freezes in place, his chin still resting against her skin. Then she’s pushing at his chest in blind panic and he’s scrambling to get footing on the unsteady bed before she knocks him to the floor in her haste to escape. She doesn’t have the presence of mind to use magic to redress herself. He thinks he can hear seams ripping as she pulls the shirt over her head and struggles to arrange her breasts to sit properly in it; even though he can see the bottom curve of the left one, he’s far too preoccupied with the wherefore of hearing Gul’dan’s voice within the safety of his tower to warn her. Her pants go on lopsided as well and are followed by her throwing open the door out of the tower with her boots in hand and dashing through into the hazy sunlight barefoot.

  
Please let Cordana have too much professional pride to bring this up later.

  
From outside, he can hear the displacement of air from a teleport spell. He’ll be lucky to meet her eyes next time they have their secret meeting here, assuming she even comes back. Was it a memory of another man’s stubble on her vulnerable neck that sent her away or current events? Not the sort of thing one asks a woman of Jaina’s power level if one wishes to retain one’s head.

  
He glances down at his softening erection. A fitting metaphor for everything he’s experienced lately.

  
Unbidden, a new image blooms in his mind’s eye. Instead of the tall, muscular hero pleasuring the shapely heroine of that long-ago furtive reading session, he has an outside perspective of himself leaning up against an imposing figure whose muscles have lost some tone with advanced age but who still dwarfs Khadgar’s own slimmer frame. And in that mental image, the partner more gifted with the classically masculine silhouette reaches a wizened hand to caress Khadgar’s cheeks, his lips, his chin. With a beatific expression, his imaginary self leans unsteadily against his partner, his eyes closed, his lips moving to brush those fingertips in a wanton gesture of passive desire. The other’s wicked fingernails are raked down his neck and vertically across his breast, eliciting a soundless moan and then convulsive sucking motions.

  
Opening his eyes to dispel the last vestiges of such a disturbing vision, he feels his cock twitch with anticipation. He’s gone completely hard in the space of these few seconds. The Light help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone else have that paranoia like "I'm endangering the mission; I shouldn't have come" with a DK in B-timeline Draenor? Or am I just nuts?
> 
> Why yes, I did up and decide that Kalecgos is asexual and while he and Jaina have an open relationship, she's pretty much sex repulsed from the experiences of her teenage years. Khadgar is still an irredeemable nerd, the Light bless the poor man. (Khadgar, _no!_ )
> 
> Stay tuned for part III.


	3. Playing With (Fel) Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Khadgar should know better than to let a master manipulator get a word in edgewise. Worse, there are substrates of reality where thoughts are far easier to see and an expert with fel magic will still leave discernible traces to pursue.
> 
> Or: banter? Banter! Banter banter banter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be it known that I am a tease and I have the spirit of a scoundrel. Does this count as slow burn yet?
> 
> Let me know if the single space between paragraphs thing is okay or if I need to put in that like 1.5 space thing it defaults to that drives me bananas and leads to hours of snarling and editing HTML while keeping a running monologue in my head of "I used to spend hours doing this shit by hand and what happened to standards why are they doing it like this now with 'tag containers' it makes no sense whatsoever argh."

>   
>  _I'd like to meet you_  
>  _In a timeless, placeless place_  
>  _Somewhere out of context_  
>  _And beyond all consequences_  
> 
> 
> —Suzanne Vega, "Language"

Despite everything on his mind, it's visually breathtaking. Khadgar firmly reminds himself that he's not here to sightsee, however much he might want it. To stop and stare and experience an uncommon sensory pleasure that he just hasn't had the means to appreciate in recent memory. In much the same way, he hadn't _wanted_ to resort to an out-of-body experience among the twisting lights and ribbons of fire that make up how his mind perceives the mechanisms of this place...but this jaunt at the very least allows him to continue the hunt for Gul'dan, as the trail had gone cold in physical reality. Do something productive. Be proactive. Get away from eyes full of suspicion and concern. If he must endure the obsession weighing on him, he can let his allies benefit from his misery, for he is resolved! But even resolve isn't proof against corruption....

Tracing the passage of even so powerful a practitioner as his quarry doesn't come easily. "Space" and "time" work as little better than concepts in this realm. Even scent and touch and taste are less than helpful senses because none of the means of describing those sensations translate. Trying to fit it into his native idiom leaves him with a sense of everything whirling away in different directions, leaving him paddling awkwardly at his starting point until the not-dizziness passes and he can try again.

Holding secret meetings here is likewise untenable, much as both Khadgar and his opposite would prefer otherwise. All of the spying and probing of the last few weeks has taken place on Draenor itself where they each can bring their best spells to bear on the other. Should one of them make a breakthrough, the other will be hard pressed to reduce the advantage. And yet Khadgar has felt certain for an unknown length of time that the means to accomplish what he desires exists here, in a place removed from imprisoning flesh.

He alights on something he'd call a promontory if he had a body and the texture below him had a solid quality. Gul'dan has spent time here; the signature of his particular style of spell-building is as present as the faint wisps of leftover emotion. If Khadgar weren't already familiar with the amount of grasping desire that seethes under the warlock's skin, this spot would erase all doubt. He fixes in his mind the details of scented color and emotion crystallized into pebbles so he can find it again at will.

Without even a breath to mark the space between the moment he is alone and the moment he is not, he can feel Gul'dan. His missing senses fill in a wavering mirage of tattered robe and protrusions poking out of his back that are most reminiscent of the legs on a dead aqir. The malevolent gleam in his eyes comes on all the stronger for the lack of physical barriers such as skin between their psyches. In a gesture of supreme unconcern, Gul'dan turns his back on Khadgar with his signature shuffling gait. He stares out at the expanse of mixed light and darkness vying for supremacy.

"I misjudged you. I should have sent Garona to seduce you instead."

Had he eyebrows, they'd be raised. "I have better recall for history than that," Khadgar says.

He's answered with a grunt. Abruptly the shadows that make up Gul'dan's psychic presence twist in on themselves and he's facing Khadgar again. Now a container shaped like a skull is in his hand; within bubbles a liquid of milky white with a stomach-churning green tinge to it. Gul'dan makes as if to offer it to him. "You haven't lived until you've tried this."

Khadgar recoils without moving. Enough tales of former shaman bearing gifts with hefty prices attached have circulated since the days of the First War that even if he trusted Gul'dan with his life, he wouldn't trust this.

"What is it?"

"Pit Lord semen."

And right there, that's one of the core problems: Gul'dan has no respect for anyone else's intellect. His timeline's original Gul'dan had bullied his way into power from shadows, thinking himself a spider safe in the center of his web until he tangled with forces he couldn't handle.

Khadgar manifests smoke-like arms to cross them. "Do you honestly think I'm stupid enough to fall for your tricks?"

A flash of age yellowed teeth.

_Don't answer that_ , he thinks.

"I want ground rules," Khadgar says.

"You...think you're in a position to bargain with me?"

"Obviously we wouldn't be here if not for whatever's causing this strange attraction, so yes, I will bargain with you as I please."

"You utter _fool_."

"You say that like you won't be sticking your cock in my mouth in the next few minutes, once we've hashed out the rules." Khadgar would call that odd feeling light-headedness in any other dimension. He's seen enough combat action with foul-mouthed soldiers calling threats that it shouldn't rattle him. But there's a heady freedom to saying something like that to the person who's out to unmake the world.

"...you have a point. Proceed with your...ground rules."

Eventually, Gul'dan will slip up and overextend himself and they will snap him up and bring him to justice. For Khadgar to be part of that, he'll need to shake off whatever's gotten into him. And not necessarily fel-empowered orc cock. What color would a human's skin even turn after ingesting Pit Lord blood, let alone their semen? Not that he's volunteering to find out, of course. Merely academic curiosity attempting to get the best of him.

...or the influence of Gul'dan's own mind pushing these ideas on him, making him consider the kinds of things that if anyone else admitted them to him, he'd try to have them locked up for their own safety.

Can he trust himself? Should he confide in Cordana and let her determine his immediate destiny? Or can he keep it together long enough to have a series of trysts on the side without it affecting his judgment elsewhere?

What he wouldn't give for a clear-headed moment.

"First, no messing with one another's heads wherever we meet up for this. No tricks, no traps, no having minions or allies lying in wait to capture the other person," Khadgar says.

Gul'dan makes a gesture that encompasses _of course, idiot_  and _go on_  at once. Knowing beyond a doubt that he means both is rather unsettling. What kind of giveaways is Khadgar sending without meaning to?

"Second, we show up alone and leave alone under a truce," he continues.

"Out of curiosity, how are you planning to hold me to this? For all the power at your fingertips, you have yet to hunt me down and assassinate me," Gul'dan says.

He truly had hoped he wouldn't need to have this conversation here and now. He gathers his thoughts quickly.

Gul'dan manages to go first, though. "What's to stop me from putting fel chains around your neck and parading you in front of the Shadow Council as my slave?"

Coming here for such a talk when thoughts are traded as easily as breathing was a mistake. In Gul'dan's mind, Khadgar is only wearing a slave collar made from, of all things, the leather collar of his everyday outfit and reinforced with some of the strongest binding magics available. He kneels, eyes lowered demurely but still tracking Gul'dan every moment, ready to obey his wishes even if it means ignoring the members of the Shadow Council who also kneel in an arc opposite them. Naturally they're consumed with curiosity about just how and why Gul'dan would capture Khadgar and keep him in such a state but they fear him enough to know better than to ask. Khadgar is bidden to rise with a subtle signal that he nearly leaps to obey. All eyes come to rest on his turgid cock as Gul'dan gestures and, without further ado, he comes hard enough to blur his vision. At a second gesture, he is once more hard, aching, and ready for whatever public perversions Gul'dan has in mind.

"You know, if we can't come to an agreement, I will call this off," Khadgar threatens. It sounds hollow and not just because his voice went hoarse with intermingled fear and desire. He knows far too well what's possible with fel magic.

Gul'dan laughs at him. "And leave your curiosity unsatisfied? Don't you want to see what enhancements Mannoroth's blood gave the Iron Horde?" He leers so hard it's a physical thing. "What enhancements were made to me?"

Khadgar continues as if he hadn't spoken: "Third, we will keep our professional duties completely separate from...this."

"What, no pet name for our special relationship? Would you prefer I named it an assignation? A tryst? A clandestine affair? Of all people, you should know the power given to names," Gul'dan says.

_Naming it gives it validation. I'm drowning as it is_ , he says to himself.

"Fourth," Khadgar says aloud after a sound like clearing his throat, "each time we meet, it must be in a different location and we must take the utmost care to ensure we aren't followed by friend or foe."

"So you're ashamed of me."

"Fifth—what? What did you just say?" There's one train of thought he'll never recover.

Gul'dan bares his lower jaw in a ferocious grimace. "You are ashamed of natural—"

"This is hardly natural! You've ensorcelled me; I can see it in your mind plain as day, and you plan to use me as a backup plan to your main thrust because either I'm too distracted to think straight or you find a way to convert me and then unleash me on my people. Not a single thing that comes from your diseased mind is genuine; your hunger for power blinds you to genuine ecstasy and philanthropy."

Every primary source from the First and Second Wars that mentioned Gul'dan and dealing with him included cautions regarding his hunger for power and his penchant for thorough plans within plans and a dozen contingency plans on top of those. Holding out the tiniest hope that he might treat Gul'dan as a fellow flesh-and-blood creature rather than the boogeyman of human nightmares? Another mistake. It's not like he had a viable plan for preventing fel corruption entering his system.

Narrowed eyes and a daunting frown meet his gaze unabashedly. "I see that any form of treaty with you is useless. When next we meet, we shall see how you feel about being taken by force."

Do they make chastity belts that block fel magic? That might be his only hope, assuming Gul'dan doesn't just seize control of his mind outright and...

That's not a thought process he should indulge.

A smirk hides itself at the corners of Gul'dan's mouth. He read that thought.

"If you won't agree to my terms, I see no purpose to continuing to waste my time on you," Khadgar announces. He needs to get out of here before his imagination further embarrasses him.

"It would be so easy," Gul'dan muses. "So easy to open a portal right here and pull you through behind me. Dominate your mind and break you until there's nothing left but the desire to serve..."

"Yeah, that's not a depraved fantasy at all," Khadgar mutters. He raises his voice. "What's stopping you?"

"Nothing so feeble as compassion. My masters have no compunctions against forcing others to their will. But it's not as satisfying as bringing another mind around to your way of thinking after a relentless assault through logic. A willing convert is an asset as an enslaved mind can never be," Gul'dan says.

They say it's lonely at the top. In a hierarchy in which your smallest infractions and least important mistakes might end your life, that's not surprising. It's as if all of the emotions that should have been nurtured were twisted in Gul'dan's past, leaving this grasping, paranoid mess. He knows all too well what will happen if he tries to renege on his dark bargains; that, or his imagination supplies even worse fates that were never specifically enumerated to engender just such thought processes because the Legion knows quite well how to keep its agents in hand. And out of those twisted desires comes this chance at making a connection to the kind of man he might have been if not for outside meddling.

Or it's all another of his tricks to get Khadgar to lower his mental defenses.

"I notice you haven't left in disgust yet," Khadgar says.

All it takes to change history is one person. One choice. One adamant refusal to leave another soul permanently locked in the hopeless dark. One man offering another an avenue of escape.

"Don't you dare pity me." While it has the sound of a snarl, Khadgar can see the logic at work behind it. He keeps his peace for the moment, letting Gul'dan come to his own conclusions. Finally, grudgingly, Gul'dan adds, "I see you haven't given up on the prospect of letting me do unspeakable things to your body."

"Curiosity will be the death of me," Khadgar says with a sigh. "Do we have an agreement?"

Gul'dan gives the barest hint of a shrug. "I vow I will not betray your identity, location, or preferences to any outside party. In return, I get to violate your body however I wish. Agreed?"

There's a tug from his distant physical body: excitement. It must be strong to make itself known here.

"Agreed." For better or for worse, it's done. For as much as he can trust the word of a villainous murderer who has outright admitted to using mind control to get his way. And his ultimate goal involves having Khadgar at his side, which summons a feeling of being very complimented and conflicted. There's no equality to that partnership and no way would Khadgar consider a long-term arrangement. Which leaves just one loose end to tie up. "What's a good place on your world to have a rendez-vous?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An amalgamation of many kink meme prompts are partly responsible for this. You have only yourselves to blame.
> 
> (Did…did I seriously write a consent-and-boundaries conversation between video game characters? Damn brain, you wild. I'm quite proud of how a large chunk of the conversation just came to me almost immediately, while getting the prose bits right took longer than expected.)
> 
> I will try to have chapter four posted sooner rather than later, as it's drafted and just needs edits. My free time is a bit more constricted now and exhaustion saps creativity like whoa.


	4. Sex and Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All aboard the train to fuck with Khadgar's head some more!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I tell you this kind of decided it wanted storyline? Because it did. With a certain amount of apologies to DD, whose ideas I shamelessly pillage.

> _I watched with glee_  
>  _While your kings and queens_  
>  _Fought for ten decades_  
>  _For the gods they made_
> 
> —The Rolling Stones, “Sympathy for the Devil”

If it’s a fever dream from some jungle virus, it’s certainly building a most bizarre scenario. If it’s real, however, Khadgar needs to take a good, hard look at his life choices.

In a coincidence that strains credibility, Jaina borrowed Cordana’s services for a day or so—just in time for Gul’dan to send a message through the etheric currents that he’s found a secluded hideaway in Shadowmoon Valley for them to steal away for their first official session. It’s even close enough for Khadgar to use the staff of Atiesh to turn himself into a raven and fly there. He cannot close his mind’s eye to the visions of his past and this Draenor’s averted future on the way. The Valley is lush, stunningly so; with mindful guardianship, its natives and recent immigrants ought to have coexisted in harmony. If not for the touch of the Legion befouling everything it set its sights upon. No volcano has thrust its way from the center of this land as a monument to Gul’dan’s ego; no armies have spilled countless gallons of blood on the grounds of the Temple of Karabor in endless campaigns to retake its space for whomever desires it. He would spare them that fate.

And his own fate? Viewed from hindsight, will he one day curse his foolishness?

Minutes later, after he’s assured himself that the whole thing isn’t a trap cleverly laid out for him, and he’s resumed his human form, Khadgar espies his putative enemy waiting for him. And, dumbfounded, he gapes at the jarring domesticity of the setup: is that a picnic basket?

“Before you ask—” Gul’dan growls defensively.

“Ask what?” inquires Khadgar.

“Of course I warded the glade against intrusion.”

“It hadn’t even crossed my mind,” Khadgar says, his eyes darting around their surroundings to verify. One of the damnedest things about fel magic is detecting it. In the hands of a man so practiced at subtle workings, that’s nearly impossible.

Gul’dan has placed himself against a wide tree trunk with his legs crossed. The way his robes are designed, it exposes the bare flesh of his still muscular legs up to the thighs. Not your average spellcaster armor. With few angles of attack accessible here aside from head-on. Looks like he expected the possibility of betrayal as well.

Khadgar doesn’t dare to sit yet. Empty promises from the old orc’s throat have brought so many to their doom. What’s one more to him in the name of conquest?

“I must say I’m surprised you haven’t unleashed your personal touch on the area,” Khadgar observes.

Gul’dan rolls his eyes. “And make doubly sure you wouldn’t have anything to do with me? This is why I’m always three steps ahead of your pitiful allies.”

“Let’s not discuss politics while we’re here.”

“Suit yourself,” Gul’dan says with a roll of his shoulders. “What do you want out of today?”

 _Freedom_ , he wants to say.

A thousand more ground rules he should have asked for last time run through his head. _No using my life force to power your spells. No implanting hidden commands to be carried out unknowingly. No, let’s just forget about the whole thing._ Can he ask for amendments at this late stage?

He takes an awful risk instead, saying, “I thought you were the one to determine what debauchery I would experience at your hands.”

A surprised laugh comes out of Gul’dan. “I have had minions who were less ready for this than you,” he says. Something about his rumbling voice makes Khadgar suppress a shiver. He hasn’t visibly cast a spell, but all the same he must have. This just can’t be Khadgar’s unaltered volition at work.

“What would you have me do?” Khadgar asks hoarsely. He hasn’t taken off a single article of clothing but already he feels naked before the warlock’s gaze. Granted, those maddened red eyes have never brought to mind words like “comforting” or “gentle” when they’ve clashed previously, so why should they start now? Hasn’t Gul’dan always projected an aura of ancient knowledge as if he can see to a person’s soul with a mere glance?

Now his look is appraising, sliding up and down Khadgar’s body and just as potent as a moment ago. Khadgar licks lips that suddenly feel more dry than is physically possible. “Are we not slaves of the limits of our bodies? Let us test the limits of yours and see what comes of the experiment,” Gul’dan says.

“So long as you’re not planning to impregnate me with some sort of horrifying parasitic demon,” Khadgar shoots back. His unthinking responses have always landed him in trouble.

Gul’dan purses his lips and raises an eyebrow. “Do you think it was a simple matter to breed a goat-woman with an orc?”

“Ah-ah, politics, remember?” The subject of Garona’s conception sounds like it might quench what little bravery he’s gathered and send him flying back to Zangarra with aching balls and a head full of unfulfilled fantasies. This whatever-it-is, agreement or downfall or something else entirely, is still delicate enough to fragment back into unrivaled animosity if they don’t treat it with due caution. Never mind that neither of them has a cautious bone in his body. Possibly Khadgar, as usual, is letting himself over-think the details when he ought to just let go and see where it takes him. After all, isn’t that how adventurers end up effecting world-changing outcomes?

Gul’dan subsides with the less savory details that probably had him so excited when they first occurred that he longed for someone to share them with. For all of Medivh’s faults and leaving aside the price he paid, he strove to give Khadgar nurturing companionship and shared the excitement of discovery with him. If he chooses to believe the oral histories out of Draenor, the competitive nature of the relationship between Gul’dan and his mentor prohibited any true wonder in favor of jealously amassing as much power as they could, as fast as they could. Yet sympathy for a twisted wretch such as Gul’dan might just get Khadgar worse than dead.

A pause filled by the sounds of local wildlife. “Very well,” Gul’dan says after, “let us begin. Disrobe.”

Khadgar focuses on his keeping his respiration even while goosebumps break out all over. Despite the best of counterspells emplaced on his armor, a forceful enough offensive volley can punch through to the vitals with shocking ease. Removing what little protection he has opens him up on so many fronts. In spite of his best intentions, his breath starts coming faster from fear. He receives no instruction on what to do with his clothing so he takes the initiative upon himself and lets it pile up haphazardly. Finally he is fully naked.

For the first few years after Medivh’s attempt to drain his life force that ended with his premature aging—and his mentor’s demise—he avoided looking at himself whether by reflection or by his own sight. As a means to protect his ego rather than a concession to vanity, it took literal decades to come to terms with the changes once he’d given up on trying to break the curse. Only with his renewed interest in taking on the Legion full-bore did he develop a pang of guilt over his lackadaisical stance. To go from hale youth to sagging muscles and flabby belly, from the remnants of baby fat in his cheeks and a full head of hair to untameable whiskers and a shock of white atop his head would shatter anyone’s self-image. And the naaru, being what they are, paid it as little mind as the draenei who had encountered precious few humans before him. The latter showed a reverence for the wisdom of those of advanced age which he unashamedly allowed them to pin on him for the sake of letting his legend grow.

But none of these acquaintances of his past ever asked to see him unclothed.

Squeamish isn’t the sort of word you’d apply to practitioners of his stature under normal circumstances; studying the infinite permutations of order requires an orderly mind. Learning to apply new modes of physicality to other living beings required crash courses in anatomy and more. But when that anatomy is attached to him, he becomes far more shy. The judgment of one’s peers stings far more than that of ignorant laypeople.

“Obedience I could only dream of in my sworn followers,” Gul’dan says under his breath. Could he be checking off items on a mental list?

Khadgar carefully clears his mind of prurient images. Now that he’s come before the object of his mixed-up fears and desires, the former chokes the latter as vines do their competitors. His most sensitive parts attempt to retract up inside his body as they do on cold days. But even in the shade of a Shadowmoon hideaway, the oppressive heat penetrates and he sweats.

“How did you humans manage to survive for millennia with so little of any useful survival traits? Our children could snap your flimsy necks.”

A subject less conducive to arousal Khadgar can’t possibly conjure at the moment. He’d taken the point of the experiment as a test of his physical capabilities, not mental. Two very different things in his lexicon but orcs have surprised humans for decades now with their alien thought processes.

“Precisely what are you trying to measure?” Again the words tumble through his lips without permission.

“And have you throw off my measurements with your do-gooder attitude? I thought your master had taught you better methodology than that.”

Khadgar’s vision swims for a moment with the rush of emotions, protectiveness and anger and shame, a tinge of relief that he hadn’t invoked that name.

Gul’dan doesn’t even bother to hide his sneer. “If you’re that easily rattled, you’ll never last.”

“I thought the plan was to get me riled sexually, not emotionally,” Khadgar retorts. “Parading me in front of your coterie like the spoils from a successful pillaging won’t be happening; I don’t care what you think you’ll get away with—”

A gesture like a come-hither and what he guesses is half the blood in his body floods his loins. Only a supreme effort of will keeps him from going to his knees in front of this...this... He’s so dizzy with sudden onset lust it’s hard to think beyond Stay standing and...he’d been incensed, readying a rant to flay his opponent with logic.

“You scorn my gifts, you talk back like a petulant child; I must inevitably conclude that you’re not quite as ready as I thought you were. There are far more layers to fel magic than you could even begin to grasp without decades of intense analysis. Perhaps what you need is a few days to think about what’s on offer,” Gul’dan pronounces grandly.

Hardly any of the words penetrate the fog in Khadgar’s mind until the end. He opens his eyes wide, so wide that even the filtered sunlight entering this darkened bower hurts them. So many demanding parts of him declaring that he needs to find release at once because this isn’t sustainable and all logic has flown out of the equation.

Gul’dan digs his gnarled staff into the mulch and pushes himself upright with surprising alacrity given his usual splay-toed hobble. Some distant part of Khadgar is still taking notes on what he observes for later retrieval.

He swipes his free hand into the smallish basket and comes out with what looks like a line of spiky runes invoking fel magics strung into a chain, holding one end like a whip ready to strike at Khadgar. He moves viper-fast again to arrive by Khadgar’s pile of clothing, studying it with that damnable smirk.

“Please,” Khadgar says. Whether it’s a cry to ward off a forthcoming attack or a request for release, he cannot say.

Now Gu’dan looks up from the clothing. “I hold to my agreements,” he says gruffly. In a less distracted moment Khadgar would come up with multiple points in his timeline where that was patently untrue. He goes on to say, “We’re both busy men and I vowed not to do anything against your campaign during our assignations”—this with heavy irony on the term for the sake of petulance—”but I require an easier method of contacting you. I have bound a certain portion of my essence to this spell so that if I desire your company, I can whisper in your ear.”

Khadgar shakes his head. “You don’t need to know where I am at a moment’s notice...”

“Spare me,” Gul’dan interrupts, rolling his eyes. “I can only do so much to prove my trustworthiness to you; don’t insult me by impugning my honor.” The warlock stops speaking to fiddle with the spell-string until it flares like a miniature sun and settles into the metal ring at the collar of his shirt. That done, he lets the overshirt fall and straightens once more. “To set your mind at ease, know that I will not call you on a day when we are to go into action against one another.”

“How would you even know?”

His brows draw low, menacing. He growls, “A shaman isn’t the only practitioner to catch glimpses of the future.”

A proof long since taken for granted in certain sections of the Alliance command and probably Horde as well. If fel visions are even slightly more accurate than those of farseers, the forces arrayed against the Iron Horde have their work cut out for them heading off their enemies’ thrusts before they can do too much damage.

His insight is returning. Gul’dan’s spell must be wearing off. His heart leaps for just long enough to let his hopes rise with it before Gul’dan’s eyes narrow at him. “Did you unravel that?” he demands. Then his shoulders relax a little. "No matter." Another gesture so practiced it bears no flourish, only efficiency, and the fog comes back twice as hard.

And speaking of hard things. Khadgar begins to pant as the heat in the air and the heat inside try to overwhelm him.

This of course amuses Gul'dan no end. "Until our next meeting then," he says and makes a new gesture.

All of the pent-up, screaming energy scouring him from the inside finds a path out and it's satisfying and overwhelming as no other orgasm has ever been until Khadgar's vision goes dark at the edges.

 _Fuck_ —

The next thing Khadgar knows, small spots of his sweat-damp flesh are registering warmer than others and the calls of native creatures are pounding his ears to birth one doozy of a headache. He opens his eyes slowly, a languor resistant to activities beyond basic metabolic function fighting him the whole way. Next he fights his way into a sitting position, noting the shafts of sunlight slanting through the ancient trees and dappling his skin. Beneath the layer of exhaustion, he definitely feels less muddled and libidinous, though he'd prefer that the next time he scratches that particular itch it doesn't require four weeks of torture leading up to the moment of release.

No sign of Gul'dan in what's turning into a gold drenched late afternoon. He's not alone, however: tiny plant sprites came to peer at him at some point while he was unconscious. When he focuses his eyes on them at last, the largest hefts a tiny spear shaft with an honest to goodness metal arrowhead on its end. The smaller podlings, that's what they're called, snap to attention and bring their spears to bear on him as well. More curiously, they've confiscated his clothing and are either doing their best to wear bits of it or drape it on bushes and run in and out of the lean-tos created if they're not part of the group guarding him.

He goes to push himself to his feet but his hand lands in a sticky white puddle.

Khadgar lets out a sigh and resigns himself to chasing down all the pieces of his outfit for the rest of the afternoon, once he's cleaned himself up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friend: "I can't believe you're making me ship this."  
> Me: "I can't believe my brain latched onto this as a viable ship."

**Author's Note:**

> Khadgar, you _nerd._
> 
> I mean, uh, all hail sexy grandpa Khadgar!


End file.
